SUGAR PILL
by bonesintheocean
Summary: Clare Edwards is a beautiful, intelligent, and charming young woman who has all her ducks in a row. So why does she need therapy? And just how stable is her doctor, anyway?  Eclare. Eliona. Eli-centric.
1. Chapter 1

He didn't really notice her, at first. He didn't think much of her when he first saw her, through the steam radiating from his blackest black coffee, her lips pressed together as she fiddled with her pen, flicking it about obnoxiously like some people do. His first glance was followed by another, and another, and then he busied himself with his own reading or whatever it was, not minding much when she left. The following day, however, he was intrigued to see her back in the same coffee shop, strange because she hadn't been until the day prior. She was wearing a skirt and a blouse, far more flattering than that mockery of a television detective's coat she'd been wearing before. And he took the opportunity, as her teeth and full, pink lips closed around the cap of her pen, to examine her. She became so much more with each tilt of her head or flutter of her eyelashes, so much more than his original perceptions. He would have shrugged her off as just another tube of lips gloss, just another tacky necklace, just another pair of, oh—she had a lovely pair of ivory thighs, as her skirt tucked itself away shyly when she fidgeted. But she smiled to herself at a particular something, and tucked a singular curl, brown sugar or honey-like, behind her ear, and suddenly, she was beautiful. She was captivating. And he sipped his coffee just a bit less peacefully than he had the day before, and the day before that.

Unfortunately, he found himself ready to leave before she was, today. He gathered his things into his beaten messenger bag, the faux brown leather buckles nearly falling apart, and headed for the door. He was jolted back as a loose strap on the bag snagged on a chair, and sighed, because of course this would happen. Of course he would nearly fall on his ass in a public place when he was already running six minutes late, dropping his notebook and a pen or two. He picked them up and straightened his jacket, but collided with someone as he turned again toward the door. He started spluttering apologies, quick and courteous, but stopped as his eyes became fixed on broken glass—or, diamond-like, gleaming flecks of bright light, scattered throughout the smallest oceans he'd ever encountered. Oh, but they were her eyes. She smiled at him, her pink lips having left the tip of her pen to rest, and tilted her head ever so slightly. "I'm so sorry," she uttered shyly as she examined something on the floor, which he was sure was relatively fascinating.

"No, no, not at all," he replied, with confidence. He flourished it with a smug smirk, nodding only slightly when her eyes flicked up at him. Her smile broadened, her teeth barely showing, and she straightened her back. Her skirt had resumed its job of covering her thighs.

"I, um," she said, trying to make sense of herself. She offered him her hand, wrapped around one of his prized fountain pens. "You dropped this," she told him, as if it weren't obvious. He didn't mind.

"Thank you." He grinned as he tucked the pen into a pocket inside his jacket. He pressed his fingertips lightly to his chest. "I'm Eli."

Her blue eyes widened only slightly, and she shifted from one black Mary-Jane to the other. "Clare. I'm Clare."

He nodded again, and she attempted to suppress a small chuckle. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to... bump into you." Her nose crinkled as she giggled at her own joke. "Anyway, I'm..."

"Late," Eli said calmly, maintaining his grin. "I'm going to be late. But I'm sure we'll meet again."

Clare nodded, folding her hands. She lifted her chin a bit, as if she were experiencing some sudden burst of confidence. Or maybe she was just trying to match Eli's. "One way or another."

With a final bob of his head, Eli stepped past her and through the door, back out into the street. It felt more to him, however, like he was just now returning to Earth, after a small vacation to some other planet on which a girl could actually cause a feeling in his chest. He didn't have a problem with interacting with women. If anything, he was skilled in the craft. But this girl was somehow different. Something about her has actually sparked his interest, left him intrigued. He wondered if she was always shy, if she was bright and clever, what made her smile. He wondered if the silver cross around her neck held significance, what she had been reading that made her laugh. He found himself stepping along the concrete, recreating the lace trimmings of her blouse in his mind, the delicious crème color dancing and ducking in only slight contrast with her pale skin. He was curious. He was wondering. He was fascinated. If he didn't see her again, it would be a mistake.

Eli was greeted by the same perfectly-glossed smile four mornings each week, accompanied by the sound of shuffling papers or clacking computer keys. "Good morning, Dr. Goldsworthy," she chirped as he entered the doors. She locked eyes with him for only a fraction of a second before returning her attention to whatever were the contents of this classified blue folder.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not a doctor yet, Fiona."

She looked up at him again as he paused in front of her desk. He leaned on the counter top above her eye level, and gazed dreamily at the ceiling. Folding her hands, she quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. "Can I assist you in some way, good sir?"

"Fiona, I do recall you told me a few days ago that I owe you a coffee."

"Oh, oh, I was only joking..." she said, waving her hand.

He quieted her with the slightest shake of his head. "No, you were right. And if memory serves, you enjoy vanilla lattes with skim milk and a caramel drizzle."

Not waiting for her reply, Eli presented her with a paper cup, and she beamed even brighter, clapping her hands together once before taking it. She stood up from her chair to give him a delightfully awkward hug, over the obstacle of the counter between them, and cooed, "You're such a sweetheart, Eli, really. What would I do without you?"

"I don't know," he muttered against her ear, "What did you do before I showed up?"

Without a response, she shrugged and straightened her skirt as she returned to her chair. She started to work again, but sighed with exaggerated annoyance as he continued to playfully make eyes at her. "To work with you. The customary flirting has ended for the morning. Shoo."

"Helping people one hour at a time..." Eli said under his breath as he walked away from Fiona. She didn't hear him, and he smiled to himself as he boarded the elevator. Most of the time, his brief interactions with Fiona were the highlights of his work day. And normally, he would still be picturing her gleaming smile and her excellent taste in clothes, her sparkling eyes and her dark chocolate hair, the graceful movements of her hands and the elegant shape of her body. Today, however, as he stepped into the metallic box rising on cables, his admiration of his coworker was clouded over by someone else. Someone far more mysterious, far less familiar. He was too busy thinking of Clare to wonder if Fiona would ever repay him for the coffee.

As the elevator halted, Eli made his way to his office, unlocking it and stepping inside with a deep breath. His beaten old bag fell alongside his desk as he pulled out his planner, organized carefully day-by-day, with names written in ways unreadable by anyone but himself. He pulled his work phone from his bag and clicked it on, happy to see he hadn't missed any calls. Registering that his first appointment was in ten minutes, he closed the planner and turned his phone off, pulling out his computer and his notebook. Everything was in order by the time the first client of the day arrived.

His first session was with a young man he'd spoken to before. This was their third meeting. Not surprisingly, he didn't take very well to Eli the first couple times they spoke, but by now, he was more at ease. He even smiled a few times before he left, and thanked Eli this time. They shook hands before he walked out the door.

Eli glanced at his planner once, and again when he read the name. _Clare Edwards. _He shook his head and nearly laughed to himself as the thought crossed his mind of the girl from the coffee shop. He straightened his clothes and began rolling up the sleeves of his powder blue, button-down shirt when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he answered, and looked up a few moments later.

Her jaw dropped before his did. Partly because he had been trained in the art of controlling the expression of his emotions, and partly because his eyes connected with hers belatedly. She covered her mouth as she began to laugh. "Well, isn't this funny," she said softly, with disbelief.

Eli nodded, and chuckled. "Maybe a little."

"One way or another, right?" Clare said, letting the door click shut behind her.

"Apparently." He smiled and motioned toward the couch. "Please, sit."

She placed her purse beside herself as she folded against the soft cushions, and Eli realized he shouldn't be thinking about her thighs. And he shouldn't be tracing her curves to check the accuracy of his memory. She returned his smile as he lowered into his chair. "So, _Dr. Goldsworthy_..."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Call me Eli, _please_."

"You're quite young to be a doctor, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty four."

"I am twenty four, actually," he said, straightening his back and trying not to use too many hand gestures, "And I'm not really a doctor, yet. I'm still working on that."

"Ah," she replied simply. This reaction didn't surprise him anymore. Eli knew the fact that he was young and still learning and training unnerved people. Honestly, he felt sorry for these people, because they probably all had some lingering voice in the back of their mind telling them he wasn't the best option. She cleared her throat, and grinned again, but smaller. "Well, I'm Clare, as you know, I'm twenty three years old, and I work as a journalist for a local paper. I grew up near Toronto, with my parents and my sister. My parents got divorced while I was in high school, and my sister was away in Africa for... a really, really long time, I guess. I graduated fine, good grades and all, and started attending University. And here I am."

"Here you are," he repeated. He had to mask his confusion. What on Earth was this beautiful, charming, and seemingly well-rounded young lady doing in _therapy_ with someone in _training_? What, was she a placebo?


	2. Chapter 2

"Are there control subjects in psychiatry training?" Eli asked the air, fingers holding loosely onto the straw he was slowly stirring his drink with. He broke his gaze at the far wall to turn to Fiona, his eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly. She looked at him as if he were crazy, the corner of her bottom lip snagging between her teeth just shy of the rim of her glass. She shrugged, and took a terse sip. Eli sighed. "Why would they do that? To make sure I'm not corrupting anyone?" He paused, then his jaw dropped slightly. "What if she's _another_ person in training? Or she's reporting to someone?"

Fiona finally rested her hand lightly on Eli's wrist, offering him a friendly smile and holding back a giggle. "Calm down, sweetheart. I'm sure it's not as complicated as you're making it out to be, or some sort of conspiracy, or whatever you're saying."

"Then, what?"

"What are you even _talking_ about?" She rested her elbows on the table, folding her hands together to cradle her chin atop her fingers. Her eyes glinted as he parted his lips to speak again.

"One of my patients today-"

"Are you allowed to talk about it?" she asked quickly, her eyes widening a bit.

"Probably. It's not like I'm telling you their name or anything." Eli shrugged and sipped his own drink, then returned his focus to Fiona. One thing he undeniably loved about her was that she always at least pretended to be fascinated when he had something to talk about. She made him feel important. "But, they—this person just seemed so normal. Stable. Perfectly stable and content with everything. Normal life, normal job, normal goals. Even after an hour of talking, the whole drill. It's like... a placebo or something."

Fiona nodded thoughtfully, but her eyebrows were raised. "So you think..." she mused over her pink drink, pulling the skewered cherry, orange wedge, and pineapple chunk she requested from the rim, "that the powers that be have sent in a totally normal person who doesn't _need_ therapy. Like, a sugar pill."

Eli was unsure, but he nodded.

"What would the point of that be?"

"I don't know. That's the thing that confuses me." He shrugged as she bit lightly around the sickeningly red cherry, nearly matching her evening lipstick, and pulled it from the toothpick. She chewed it slowly as she stared at something on the ceiling, and hummed a bit.

"I maintain that you're over thinking it," she said finally, popping the pineapple into her mouth.

Eli didn't respond, but plucked his straw from his drink and promptly swallowed the entire glass without pause. Fiona's eyes widened only slightly before she giggled at him as he pulled her closer, pressing his smile to her barely flushed cheek. "And you're _always_ right," he said into her ear, flicking her dangling earring with his finger, childishly amused.

"Oh, am I?"

"Indeed," he nearly muttered. His lips were just shy of her earlobe. She gripped his shoulder nearest to her and squeezed, and he mimicked the action with the hand holding onto her waist. Her shirt was incredibly soft. Nearly as soft as her pale skin.

"Mhm. Well, no offense, love," Fiona turned so their noses were nearly brushing, "but I stopped working at seven. And as much as I deeply care about your various problems, including your therapist-in-training vendettas, I really would rather just _be out_ and have fun."

Eli chuckled with a slight nod. He gave in, allowing Fiona's eyes to replace Clare's in his mind. Fiona's hair, Fiona's smile, Fiona's soft voice, Fiona's lips, mere millimeters from his. Fiona was, by far in his opinion, the most beautiful girl he'd ever met. He was incredibly lucky to have gotten to know her. Times like these were when he thanked the god he didn't believe in for his charm, or whatever it was that allowed him to get Fiona into his lap the first time he took her out. And they'd been inseparable ever since. "Let's do that, then," he said, and closed the small gap between them.

* * *

><p>Clare was wearing jeans. Tight jeans, all the way through to her ankles. They accentuated her figure incredibly well. Her hair was straightened, part of it pulled to the back and the rest left loose, cascading along her shoulders. A compact, yellow umbrella was hooked around her elbow—it had been raining since Eli had left the coffee shop that morning with two paper cups in his hands, intentionally avoiding her curious gaze. She smiled brightly and nudged the door shut behind her with the heel of her light brown Converse. "Good morning, Eli."<p>

Eli returned her smile, and they sat simultaneously. As he opened his mouth, she spoke again. "I've been meaning to say something when I see you at the cafe, but I never quite-"

"Actually," Eli said, voice calm and smooth, "It's probably better that we don't interact outside our sessions."

Something appeared in Clare's eyes. But as soon as it manifested, it was gone, and she closed her parted lips. "Oh."

Eli hoped it was his compassion as her therapist that caused the momentary twinge in his chest. "It's just for the sake of professionalism. The patient-therapist relationship can get kind of shaky if we're meeting up for coffee."

"Yeah, I understand." And even if she did understand, she wasn't happy about it. That much was clear. Of course, keeping a strictly professional relationship with this girl wasn't exactly an idea Eli was terribly fond of, either, but for the sake of everything he had worked so hard to achieve, he wasn't about to complicate this process for a girl. He already had one at his beck and call, anyway. He didn't need another girl.

"So," he said lightly, clearing his throat, "how are you, Clare?"

"Tired." She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking out the window to his right.

Eli nodded. "Have you been sleeping well?"

"Just as well as always," she replied with a sad smile. Eli nearly sighed with relief; maybe she wasn't so perfect after all. "I've just been working a bit extra, and my sister's been asking me to watch her daughter a lot lately. So I'm a little tired."

Never mind. She continued to be just as average as she had been before. A voice bit at the back of Eli's mind as he continued to question her, the same suspicion he'd been battling with all the past week, no matter how hard he tried. Why was this girl even there? It's oftentimes a battle to get people who _need_ the help to go to therapy, but here was this young woman who seemed to have all her ducks in a row sitting across from him on the incredibly soft sofa, recounting to him the events of her mediocre life and her mediocre week, maintaining an absolutely mediocre psychosis.

Near the end of their time, Clare had run out of things to say. They had focused mostly on her parent's divorce, but she hadn't said anything that sent up any flags. Normal, average, functional, with good coping skills and no cause for alarm. If anything, Clare seemed like a walking advertisement for excellent mental health. Clare was what people wanted to be like when they came _out_ of therapy.

Eli cleared his throat as he stood to hold the door for her while she exited. "Clare, I have something I need to ask you before you go," he said in his silken, soft psychiatrist voice. The one that made people's muscles relax, made others feel safe around him. She nodded, and he continued. "Why are you here, Clare?"

For a moment, she looked confused, as if she didn't understand why on Earth he was asking her this question. But she hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder and smiled again. "I need this," she said simply, switching her umbrella from one hand to the other. "Have a nice weekend."

* * *

><p>Fiona's high heel shoes were candy apple red, and had every other male specimen in the place eying her up and down until Eli's protective hand was on her waist. And sometimes even after that. She wore black earrings shaped like skulls because they were Eli's favorites, and had her hair tied back in some elaborate styling that he would never be able to figure out. "You make me feel like I owe you something," she said into his ear, close so that she could be heard over the loud music without yelling, "you've brought me a latte every morning this week that you've been in."<p>

He simply raised his eyebrows at her. He had figured they had reached that point in their relationship, where he could make thoughtful, possibly-romantic gestures. That, and it was his way of apologizing for thinking of Clare, although Fiona had no means of knowing that it wasn't her he was contemplating when he couldn't sleep. It should be, he knew. But the fine line between his visualization of Fiona's thighs and Clare's was getting foggy, and he feared it would disappear. And he had to make this up to Fiona somehow. A brief thought crossed his mind, and he wondered what Clare would look like in candy apple red heels. He wondered if Clare would even wear such a thing. Then his attention was returned to Fiona's shoulders, peeking out from her black top littered with sequins, and he nearly shook his head at himself. Then he realized he hadn't responded to her. "I just wanted to do something nice," he said, a few beats too late.

She looked unimpressed. Because she could see right through him, as always. "If you're thinking about that placebo again-"

"I'm sorry."

Rolling her eyes, Fiona bit her tongue, her jaw slightly ajar so that he could see. "Relax, Eli. Let it rest."

Eli was about to reply, when he found himself at a loss for words. Suddenly, about twenty feet away, Clare Edwards was turning her head from side to side, surveying the colorful environment with her miniature oceans. Eli nearly ducked his head, praying she wouldn't see him, but of course it was no use. Their eyes locked, and if anything else was happening anywhere in the world, he didn't know it. The smile that appeared on her lips was magnificent and radiant, and Eli returned the smile, and promptly thought to himself, _Fuck_.

Encountering patients in a club setting is probably considered incredibly far from professional.

She pushes past a few people to get to Eli, and the entire time she's moving closer, he's wondering what he should do. Obviously relaxing, as Fiona told him to, isn't really an option. Fiona picks up rather quickly on his shock, feeling the muscles in his hand tensing against her side. She looks at him with cautious concern, and leans a little closer. He isn't sure if he can tell her what the problem is. That would involve telling her about Clare, which is completely against all policy. How else can he explain this? Fiona's wary gaze doesn't falter as Clare finally reaches them, still beaming. "Hey Eli!" she says, as if she thinks it's entirely welcome.

He tries to return her smile. Unfortunately, his emotion masking is a technique he has perfected primarily in an office setting, in which these situations don't occur. Fiona's eyes flick over to Clare, inspecting her, as Eli says, "Hey, Clare."

"Funny seeing you here," she leans in, smirking. It's like she's pretending Fiona doesn't exist.

Eli tilts his chin upward. "Funny."

He feels a squeeze on his shoulder, and turns to Fiona, hoping his face demonstrates sympathy. She begins to open her mouth, as if to question, but he speaks instead. "This is Fiona," he says to Clare, but still looking into Fiona's eyes and hoping, _praying_ she'll understand. She always does, this should be no different.

Clare smiles at Fiona, a little too brightly. It's a little too fake. "Oh, yeah! You work at the, um... Well, you're the secretary or something, right?"

"Or something," Fiona says with a smile. Hers at least looks genuine, but Eli knows better. Fiona is still waiting for an explanation from him. "So you know Eli from there, then."

Suddenly, Eli is incredibly grateful for Fiona's intelligence. She's catching on. He can't give any answers, but Clare certainly can.

Clare's eyes center on the floor. "Um, yeah."

After a few beats of silence between them, and Eli realizing he's said little to nothing overall, Fiona pipes up, tightening her grip on Eli's shoulder. "Well, while this is sufficiently fascinating, I must point out how utterly unprofessional it is, and insist that Eli come dance with me." She turns to him on the last fragment and smiles, that same flashy grin that always means something along the lines of _You're welcome_. And he's sure thankfulness is seeping from his pores as he nods, and allows her to yank him away from Clare, who is still waving bashfully from where she stood.

As Fiona pulls him close, she leans close to his ear. "I had a feeling you weren't going to save yourself this time. I've also concluded _that's_ placebo girl, although I know you are not allowed to confirm nor deny that statement. So, instead, I'll phrase it like this; _that's_ the girl running through your mind twenty-four seven?"

Eli's eyes widen only slightly and he pulls his head back from Fiona's, expecting to find her looking displeased, but she's smiling. She's grinning, genuinely and sweetly, and it's one of the oddest things Eli's ever seen. He's not sure how to respond.

She leans in again, and Eli places his hands on her hips. "It's okay, Eli. We're friends."

Oh. That probably wasn't supposed to hurt as much as it did.


	3. Chapter 3

Fiona had the day off. Eli had brought her a coffee anyway, and simply dropped it in the trash as soon as he entered the building. His hair was incredibly disheveled and the dark rings under his eyes were like two strokes of purple watercolor paint. His off-white, button-down shirt was tucked into his black jeans just in front, and his old jacket was slung over his shoulder. He had a different bag today, considering the old one with the leather buckles had finally fallen apart. He was just-rolled-out-of-bed late, meaning his first session was supposed to start within about five minutes of him walking in the door. If he didn't think it would kill his training, he would call it a sick day and go back home to lose more sleep. The absolute worst part of it all was the first name in his planner.

_Clare Edwards_.

Eli wasn't sure if he wanted to see Clare Edwards or not. Her pink smile was burnt into the grey matter beneath his skull, and when he closed his eyes, he saw the ocean. His notebook was half-full of lines that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone else, he knew, but he had been trying so desperately to get the curves of her body out of his head, and now they swayed on paper in hypnotic patterns; every dip, swell, and curl. He'd been writing and re-writing things he'd remember her saying, trying to piece her together like an impossible puzzle, but the only thing that seemed _impossible_ was how absolutely perfect she was. Her laughter had been a lullaby that wouldn't leave him alone when all he wanted was sleep. She had been slowly destroying him.

In his opinion, the worst part of this whole thing was that it was Clare, and not Fiona.

The first thing she said when she walked in, in a burgundy blouse and khaki high-waisted dress pants, was, "You look really tired."

The next thing she said was, "Are you okay?"

Eli tuned out the sympathy in her voice and nodded, feigning a smile that could have fooled anyone. "Of course. I'm fine." He crossed his legs and rested his elbow on the arm of his chair. "How are you, Clare?"

"Worried," she said quietly, "about you."

He sighed, holding in the small amount of surprise he was feeling. That was easy, because the surprise was soon replaced with the urge to roll his eyes, and then the realization that he just wanted to go back to bed. "Don't be." He didn't need to ask why, or reassure her everything was okay. He didn't want to hear it. And he especially didn't want to risk talking about himself at all. He cleared his throat, patting his hands on his thighs. "How was your weekend?"

"Did I do something?" she said in a rushed breath. She bit her lip nervously. Then added, "At the bar. With Fiona."

"We really shouldn't talk about that."

She sat down, but kept her shoulders tense, her back straight. "That's what I want to talk about," she nearly muttered, then shot him a determined look. "It is _my_ session, after all."

"Clare-"

"I didn't mean, I just. Since we met at the coffee shop, you've just been so... You seemed so sweet, and, I. I don't really..." She tucked some hair behind her ear and stared at the carpet. "It just seemed like there was, um, something—something between us, Eli, I guess I thought..." Biting her lip, she risked glancing at Eli, and immediately regretted it; he had spent large amounts of time perfecting an emotionless stare, albeit it was astonishing to even him that he was capable of using it at the moment. She sighed. "I don't know what I thought."

His face remained blank, although the ache he felt in his chest didn't seem like it was going away anytime soon. He thought maybe he felt a chiseling at his breastbone, simultaneous with a constant pressure on his heart, something squeezing and pulling at the same time. It wasn't a tightness, he couldn't describe it, but it was painful all the same. He blinked once, twice, three times, and let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Maybe you should go, Clare," he said.

"I'm kind of paying to talk to you," she said sharply, with an edge. Her dejection was fading, and she was becoming impatient, her hands fisting at her sides, then stretching out again. Her fingernails were painted a cheerful, sunflower yellow. Or, maybe, a sunflower that was a little washed out by the bright sunlight of summer. Washed out by how happy and content the world was. "I'm paying you to listen to me."

"But we _can't_ talk about this," Eli nearly muttered, clenching his jaw to keep his tone even.

"Then let's meet up somewhere else," Clare breathed with earnest, "and talk about it like real people."

"I'm your therapist, Clare."

She stomped her foot. Like a child. "Why aren't you _hearing_ me? Are you too distracted by the fact that I ruined your relationship? Are you _angry _with me?"

At that, Eli's eyes went wide. His _relationship_? With Fiona?

Clare didn't let him continue. Obviously, she was sicker of this than he was. "Well, Eli, whatever it is, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I thought that maybe—maybe there was something. I'm sorry I let my heart get to me again, and I'm sorry for whatever I messed up in your life. I'm sorry for walking into your office and seeing you as more than a doctor."

As if she were capable of witchcraft, Clare Edwards vanished. Of course, the door's click reminded Eli that she was not, in fact, a magical being; she was just an angry, and possibly heartbroken young woman. He realized, then, that his original thoughts had been right, and he didn't need more girls in his life.

But now, unfortunately for him, he didn't have either of them anymore.

* * *

><p>Fiona was on the phone when she answered the door, and she didn't even look as it swung open. She glanced up quickly, smiled, and waved Eli into her apartment. She was in loungewear, a loose tank top and rolled-up pants, far more relaxed than usual. She didn't seem bothered at all by Eli showing up, unannounced and uninvited, at 9:47 at night. She continued to laugh into the receiver, fluttering her hand about at the same time she batted her lashes, motioning Eli to sit down. "Yeah, yes, of course!" she said excitedly into the phone, but was having a silent conversation with her surprise guest, pointing at a wine glass on the coffee table, and then at the kitchen. He shook his head, and she rolled her eyes fondly. She made a motion that he assumed meant her conversation would be ending soon. "Definitely. I'm <em>so<em> excited for you to visit. Can't wait. What time does your flight get in, again?" She pursed her lips, fiddling with another wine glass despite Eli's decline. "Right, right. Well, tell everyone that I can't wait to see them, and I look forward to you coming in tomorrow. Now, if you don't mind, I've got a home invasion to tend to," she winked at Eli on the couch, who smirked, and she laughed, "No, no, I can handle it. Bye, Declan."

When she finally joined him on the couch, she gracefully slipped the wine glass into his hand. He scoffed. "Your brother's coming?"

She leaned against the back of the couch, her body still turned to face Eli. She tapped his wine glass with her fingernail and then his nose. "It's the imported white you like. You look like you could use it," she said with a light laugh, ignoring his question because yes, it was obvious Declan was coming. Fiona never answered obvious questions; Fiona rarely wasted time on things that were unimportant. Maybe that was something that made Eli so fond of her. After all, she had wasted a lot of her precious time on him.

"Hm?" he murmured over his first sip.

"You look like a mess, sweetheart." She pouted a little, concern in her eyes. Fiona's hair was pulled back into some messy arrangement, and her makeup was minimal, but in the dim light of her living room, she still was absolutely gorgeous. "What's got you down? Surely you didn't miss me _that_ much on my two days off."

_You'd be surprised_, he didn't say. He didn't say, because he wondered if maybe it wasn't necessarily Fiona that he actually missed, but perhaps the idea of her, how uncomplicated their relationship was. Maybe he just missed breathing easily and not seeing yellow nail polish behind his eyelids. Maybe he preferred a red lipstick grin over a neon-colored cocktail and a pillow to soft, pink smiles above his notepad or a cup of coffee. He did miss, for certain, feeling like he had the world at his fingertips. Instead of telling her all this, he sighed, and took another sip from his glass. "I've just been thinking, Fi."

"Ah, that explains it." Despite the playful edge to her voice, she rested a gentle hand on his forearm, her jaw tightening. "What's the matter?" she asked again.

"Um." A silence dragged out between them.

"Please, dear," she said tersely. Her gaze was suddenly disapproving, but the worry still showed. "I can't help if you don't tell me."

He sighed again, and put his glass on the table. Suddenly, Eli realized he wasn't sure why he was sitting in Fiona's living room drinking wine. He barely remembered walking there, or had he taken a cab? He felt lost, confused. Intoxicated? "What are we, Fiona?" he blurted. And regretted it.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, but didn't seem too unsettled. "I didn't know there was... a lack of clarity in that." She paused, then it seemed as if she experienced some revelation, and she shook her head. "I guess I thought we kind of... Well. I guess I thought we just, you know. Were."

Eli nodded. That should have been cryptic, vague. But it wasn't. "Did you ever... With Clare, I mean, I-"

"I wasn't mad," she said quickly. Too quickly; like an over-practiced reflex, or like a line in a play.

"I know."

She bit her lip. "I was a little... wounded."

His breath hitched. _We're friends, Eli_. "You-"

"Eli." Fiona sat up a little straighter, her grip on his arm getting a little tighter. "I consider our, um. Our relationship to be a very significant part of my life. And although we never really—well, even though we never labeled it, I considered you..."

Eli closed his hand around hers and offered her a wavering smile. He understood. "I did, too," he said quietly.

A hesitant smile began to bloom across her lips, still shining with the remnants of some lip gloss long forgotten. Her white teeth flashed for a moment as she laughed, incredulously, it seemed. "Really?"

"Of course I did."

"Well, you..." she coughed, looking a bit embarrassed, "I mean, you seemed like you just, you know. Wanted to be... friends. And I was okay with that."

He tilted his head. "You were?"

Fiona shrugged. "I just wanted you to be happy. I was pretty content with whatever you had to offer."

Eli prayed to the god he didn't know that he wasn't blushing as hard as he thought he was. Especially when Fiona giggled, and pulled Eli's hand to her cheek. "Then you started bringing me coffee," she said sweetly against his skin.

* * *

><p>The door doesn't open at ten thirty. It stays closed, and the white noise of the outside world remains soft, muted. Eli checks the clock time and again, minute after minute, but no knock comes, and the door stays shut. He waits ten minutes before stepping out of his office and exploring the waiting areas, but he doesn't find what he seeks. No cinnamon curls, no ivory thighs, no glass-littered oceans.<p>

At 10:45, he dials Clare's number. He has all his clients programmed into his work phone, in case of emergencies. Of course he does. Like a responsible and good therapist does.

Clare Edwards' phone has been disconnected.

A tightness begins to form in his chest, or maybe it's a looseness. Maybe everything inside him is collapsing and toppling over, and everything is crushing everything else and that's why he can't talk or breathe or think. His eyes steal darting glances all around the room, as if one of the walls or comfortable furniture pieces will give him an answer, or at least return his ability to breathe to him. He places the phone down gently, and begins going through his records, but what he wants isn't there. The laptop, of course, it's on the laptop; the financial information. The address on the copay checks Clare has to write every week.

He's being impulsive; he doesn't know what else to be.

There. Clare's address, he has it, and no other appointments until one thirty, after lunch. He grabs his coat and nearly runs out of the building, not bothering to tend to Fiona's loving yet questioning gaze. He can't; can't stop, can't wait, can't do anything. He made a mistake. So he holds the little scrap of paper with the scrawled address in front of him, and runs. He should take a bus. Practicality is out the window.

By the time he reaches the building, he's not sure how far he's been. A glance at his watch tells him he's been running for about twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour. Maybe his watch battery died and he's stuck in time until he can solve the near-impossible and tightly-wound mystery that is Clare Edwards.

It's a town house. A little yellow place with points, dulled by the frilly-cut white trim. He knocks on one door, not caring to glance at his paper, not even sure if it would tell him which door to look at. Anyway, a young man answers the door—he's probably Eli's age—and looks completely confused and simultaneously exhausted. "Hello?" he says, like he's picking up a telephone.

Eli suddenly realizes he doesn't have a clue what to say. "I'm looking for, uh. Clare Edwards."

The guy laughs, a little incredulously, and is that a smile? A nervous smile. "Join the club," he finally utters.


End file.
